Bar Belle: Big Dickade

I like to bake, but I never thought I’d find myself hovering over a penis-shaped cake wondering if the frosting I whipped up was the right color of flesh-tone pink. I also never thought I’d be at a lesbian party with so many dicks — dick confetti, dick ring-toss, dick flowers, dick suckers (the candy kind), dick beer mugs, dick costumes. It was like a bachelorette party and the secret shower room at Connections collided, creating a massive explosion of male genitalia that spiked the punch. But it was all for a good cause — a milestone of sorts. My girlfriend was celebrating her Dickade — 10 years without a snake in her garden.

I don’t think it’s common practice to honor such achievements in the lesbian community, because I had never heard the term before. Certainly there is much prestige placed upon the Gold Stars (the few and the proud who have never slept with men), and new lesbian identification phrases are coined daily — lipstick lesbian, diesel dyke, baby dyke, butch, hasbian, kiki, pansexual, Rand Paul. But a Dickade? Why not? It’s important to celebrate life’s accomplishments, no matter how big or flaccid.

I still have a few years to go before I honor my own Dickade — it took me a while to find the closet door because it was stocked with liquor — but you better believe it’ll be a party to remember. I’m sure it’ll be at The Back Door, and maybe Maker’s Mark can create a cock-shaped bottle dipped in red wax. A girl can only hope.

Online dating hating
I haven’t mentioned my girlfriend before in these pages because it’s a relatively new development, and hopefully I didn’t just put a Bar Belle curse on it. I have about as much luck in that department as the UK football team. But at the urging of my friends and therapist, I created a profile on the dating website OKCupid earlier this year and decided to “attempt” to be optimistic. I thought online dating sites were weird and awkward and for desperate people. But if I made myself go on a few dates, perhaps I would expand my horizons and at least score a dinner or some free beer.

I got a few messages here and there — usually around the time of a full moon — but never responded because I was convinced by their 1-inch profile pic that we would never work out. And sometimes they couldn’t spell. Like, at all. If someone says they write for a living, wouldn’t you proofread the three-word message you sent them? The first one I received: “Ctfu. Your hilarious.” That hurt on so many levels.

But alas, after many, many months of ignoring messages, I got one from Dickade and decided to play along. A) She could spell and use proper punctuation, B) She’s from Indianapolis and knew nothing about how much I like to drink, and C) I had her at the words “stabs in vagina” when she asked about my story: “Girl falls in love, love stabs her in the vagina.”

After a month of back-and-forth chatting, one thing became apparent — the bases are completely different in online dating. First base is nowhere near a kiss — it’s getting the person to write back. Second base is not under the shirt — it’s exchanging numbers so you can text instead of having to log on to the Internet to check your messages. Third base is serious, but not in a down-the-pants way. It’s Facebook-sharing time — whether you’re ready or not, your past and its cast of characters are on full display for the other person to pore through. Finally, a home run is scored when you convince the other person to visit for an afternoon of bottomless mimosas.

Two months later, you just might find yourself hovering over a dick cake, adhering chocolate sprinkles to the balls while wearing a Colts T-shirt.

Drunk Texts of the Week
• Don’t just lay there, help me find my zipper!
• Froto DoucheBaggins
• Can I put both dicks in the oven at the same time?
• Ahh to blow a wiener whistle is my dream

Send your drunk texts to [email protected]. My blog is at Word.